


Cross-Breed

by Quillpaw



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Animal Transformation, Gen, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillpaw/pseuds/Quillpaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted on the kinkmeme: Daniel Cross is a good dog. So good, in fact, that he starts to turn into one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was easy enough to find the trigger point in hindsight- the Apple. They had used it on him, to stall him, and at the time he thought that was all it had done. He didn't realize how wrong he was until it was too late.

The first sign had been the change in his shaving. Stubble returned too quickly, in two days, then in one. His hair was getting too long, too fast, and he took to impatiently shearing it off in shaggy locks every few days. Fine golden hairs had begun to sprout along his arms, a genetic quirk he'd never suffered from before. They itched, and he had no time for them- long sleeves it was, then. He should have been more concerned, but there were bigger problems to worry about. Bigger problems named Desmond Miles.

The second sign had come after the confrontation in New York. Well, "confrontation" was even too strong a word for it. It was a botched job, a disgrace to the Order. Less taunting next time, more nonlethal shots to the kneecaps. He'd made a note of it. He had woken to find himself on the floor of a high-rise apartment, blood on his face and in his mouth and on his clothes, and he had grown claws. Not big claws, nothing impressive or even terribly extraordinary besides their sudden growth. They weren't even sharp- just long, blunt, and in the way. He had examined them, been bewildered for approximately two and a half seconds, then rage overtook him. A string of Russian curses fell from his lips before he could stop them, directed at Desmond, at himself, at the world in general. The thought of his humiliating defeat was enough to put the claws out of his mind entirely.

A second defeat had brought another change. Maybe it was head trauma that triggered it, rather than just the Apple. Again he was flat on his back and covered in his own blood, but this time he had an unfortunate guard trying to rouse him. He had bolted upright and snarled wordlessly at the man, gnashing his teeth. When he bit down he tasted yet more blood welling up from his lip- split by his teeth, not Desmond's fists. At least the teeth weren't blunt and useless like the claws. He made his way back to Rome with his tail between his legs- thought, not really. He didn't have a tail. Not yet.

It was like he was going through puberty again, with all the joys of growing pains gnawing at him as he tried to work. His bones ached, and not from training- it was an inner ache, the unpleasant pain of a joint ready to slip out of place without the satisfaction of hearing it pop. He found himself standing on the balls of his feet, though that was not a solution for the pain so much as an odd by-product. Sitting wasn't any better- his tailbone was overly-sensitive and sent unpleasant jolts up his spine with each small movement. While dealing with all of that, it was only natural he'd be in a fouler temper, snarling and snapping at anyone who had the gall to communicate with him, be in his space, look at him funny. But the snarling and snapping was literal- baring and gnashing of sharpened teeth. A lot of low, guttural noises had escaped him lately, both growls and slips into Russian that were starting to come with more frequency. Something was very wrong, and he knew it, but he didn't have the time to think about it, let alone try and fix it.

By the final confrontation, he was barely holding himself together. Surely Desmond would notice that he was struggling to even keep a grip on his gun, that he was barely holding himself upright, that he had to force words through a mouthful of fangs and a jaw that didn't quite work right anymore. He pointed his gun at Desmond's head; finish the job, then find a safe place to lick his wounds. Then it hit, and he felt himself coming apart. He tried to speak but it came out wrong, first Russian words then no words at all, dissolving into an inarticulate howl. He stumbled, too disoriented to remember how his legs worked, before breaking into a run, out of the room, away from Desmond. When he started to run on all fours, he didn't notice the change.


	2. Chapter 2

"What the hell is going on down there?" Vidic's voice demanded, and Desmond wondered the same thing. Something had happened- was happening- to Cross, and it had saved his life. He pushed himself off the Animus, bolting after the other man. A few startled guards tried to draw their guns on him, but he pushed past; he didn't have time to stop and kill them. Cross was just out of sight, but he could hear the indistinct howling easily enough. He barely seemed aware of where he was running too, and it wasn't long before Desmond had him cornered in a dead end hall. He flung himself through the doorway, ready to dodge any wild shots from the other man's gun—only to find Cross was not there.

A huge shaggy dog was backed up against the far wall, writhing and struggling to get itself free from the constricting clothing wrapped around it. With a ripping of fabric, the clothes fell off in layers- leather jacket, dark hoodie, pants and undershirt falling into a pile on the floor. It kicked the gun away and it skittered across the floor to rest at Desmond's feet. Freed of its burden, the dog turned on Desmond, baring its teeth and snarling roughly. Desmond could only stare at it. He was putting two and two together in his mind, but the answer was impossible.

"Cross?" he breathed, incredulous. For a brief moment, the dog's ears pricked, then went flat again. "Holy shit..." Vidic was talking above and around him, taunting him, but he wasn't listening anymore. He slipped his knife back into its sheath, and carefully approached the dog. It kept growling at him, but it was crouched low, its tail between its legs- threatened, not threatening. He crouched down in front of the beast, one hand outstretched. "Hey, it's..." A set of teeth flashed close to his hand, and he pulled it back, surprised. "Easy! I'm not gonna hurt you." His voice was a lot calmer than he felt.

He didn't even know if he was telling the truth. The idea of killing the dog, taking out Cross while he was helpless like this, was tempting. But for all the growling and snapping, Desmond could see the fear in the dog's dark eyes. Carefully, he placed a hand on top of the dog's head, rubbing behind the ears. "It's okay," he said quietly. "I'm not going to hurt you." The dog stopped growling, looking up at him in confusion. "You should get out of here. If they figure out who you are, they're going to have you on a slab. Go on." He got to his feet, turning and heading back towards the elevators. He still had to find his father. He was surprised to hear the faint click of nails on tile, and he glanced back to find the dog trailing after him, ears back and tail down.

"Where's Vidic?" Desmond asked into his earpiece, stepping into the elevator. The dog slunk in after him, keeping as much distance between itself and Desmond as it could manage in the space.

"Fifth floor," Rebecca reported. "What happened with Cross? Is he dead?"

Desmond looked to the dog beside him, frowning slightly. "I'll...tell you later."

The dog trailed silently behind him as he made his way towards Vidic. It didn't seem fazed by the death all around him, the cold, efficient murder of the waves of guards. It stood back as Desmond used the Apple, but Desmond didn't miss the pained noise it gave when Vidic dropped. It loped over while Desmond was untying his father, and he watched out of the corner of his eye as it whined and laid down beside the cooling body. William gave it a look that was equal parts distrust and confusion. "Desmond, what is that?"

"It's a dog," Desmond said simply. "A golden retriever, I think. I don't...think it's a threat." He turned to address the beast. "Are you coming with us?" The dog glanced at him, pressed its nose briefly to Vidic's temple, and got to its paws. Desmond nodded, and led them out of the building. Both the dog and his father hung back, seeming rather wary of him while he wielded the Apple with such brutal efficiency. When they got to the van, the dog hopped in without any prompting, curling up on the floor by Desmond's feet. Both Shaun and Rebecca were asking about it, but Desmond just slumped against the wall of the van; he was too tired to explain, and they were going to ask questions he didn't have answers for. He wasn't ready for that. Eventually the rumbling of the van lulled the dog to sleep, and it was not long before Desmond followed suit.


	3. Chapter 3

"Desmond, what you're saying doesn't make any sense." William had said, pacing impatiently. "People don't just turn into dogs. It's impossible."

"I know it sounds crazy, but everything we've been doing lately is crazy," Desmond had responded, sounding more than a little exasperated himself. "Look, I know what I saw. I mean, you can talk to him. He understands us." He had perked up at that, lifting his head from his paws to look up at Desmond quizzically. "See?"

"Even if that is true," William seemed loathe to even consider it. "Even if it really is him, then he's still a Templar. We can't have him here. He's a threat!"

"He has nothing left." Desmond's tone was sharp. "What's he going to do, run and tell Abstergo what happened? He can't communicate, and even if he could, they'd have him on a slab, and he knows it. I'm not putting him out on the streets to live like an animal."

"He _is_ an animal, Desmond!"

Daniel made a noise in the back of his throat, getting to his paws. He was tired of listening to the Mileses argue. If this was how the Assassins operated, it was a miracle they ever got anything done. A soft whistle caught his attention, and his ears perked, turning towards the source of the sound. The woman, Rebecca, was beckoning him over with whistles and hand motions, and he obliged, making his way towards her. She placed her gloved hand on his head, rubbing slowly behind his ears.

"So you're really him, huh?" she said softly, her tone hard for him to place. He bobbed his head once beneath her hand, a confirmation. She sighed, though he wasn't sure why, as it wasn't in disappointment or sympathy. "...I think I agree with Desmond." She spoke loud enough for the two to hear. "If changing species doesn't mean giving someone a new start, I don't know what is. He deserves a second chance."

"Yes, assuming we live long enough for that." The English one, whose name Daniel did not know, spoke up, clapping his hands together. "This really isn't something we have time to waste on. We can worry about whether we send him to a shelter after we save the world."

"...Agreed," William and Desmond chorused reluctantly, though both for different reasons. Desmond made his way over to the red reclining chair and carefully laid down in it. This Animus was quite the step up from the metal slab Abstergo had used, and Daniel found himself surprised at the technology the Assassins had available to them, not for the first time that day.

Rebecca had turned her attention back to her computer, and Daniel loped over to the chair, watching as the thin screen slid over Desmond's eyes. He laid down at the foot of the Animus, resting his head on his paws. He gave a deep, bassy 'rouf', closing his eyes. _Thank you, Desmond._ As Desmond slipped into ancient memories, Daniel could have sworn he heard him mumble an indistinct "You're welcome."


End file.
